


winter storms and winter soldiers

by princess_charles



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Assassination, Gen, Memories, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_charles/pseuds/princess_charles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier has a person to assassinate and some memories to try and ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter storms and winter soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> don't mind me, i'm just over here being weird about bucky barnes. nothing new. thought of this when i forgot my umbrella the other day and had to walk home in the rain. please comment and tell me what you think, i've never really written fic before and could use some feedback!

The rain is steady and cold, bullets of water that drive straight downwards in sheets and plaster the asset's long hair to his scalp and neck. This isn't a howling storm with thunder raging and lightning slipping a knife into the armour of the sky; nor is it the kind of friendly diamond sun-shower that's really just an excuse for a rainbow. No, this is just freezing water and concrete sky, the kind of rain that seems like it could go on forever.

The coldness doesn't bother the asset, or the damp. He's long since stopped caring about any physical sensation that isn't a sign of permanent damage to his body. Right now, if he concentrates, there is nothing but the rifle in his arms and the cobbled square below him and the knowledge that in two minutes' time, a bulletproofed black four-wheel drive will pull up, his target (a diplomat loudly and annoyingly advocating a ban on arms trading in Syria) will step out of said car, and he, the asset, invisible from the balcony, will take aim and pull the trigger.

The rain, however, isn't cooperating. It snakes down his face and blurs his goggles and turns his hair into dark, soaking tendrils that fall down his forehead into his eyes, despite the fact that he's under the canvas balcony-shade. He's not sure he'll even be able to see the target when she finally arrives, at this rate. The asset raises an arm to wipe the hair and some of the water out of his vision, then settles back into position: down on one knee, rifle barrel poking between the bars of the balcony railing, gaze intent on the side street from which the target will emerge.

(He tries to ignore the strange feeling that something is terribly wrong, and that he needs to be protecting somebody from this rain, somebody he cares about very much.)

The engine of the four-wheel drive is barely audible over the persistent smack of rain on cobbles, when it arrives. It’s standard diplomatic-vehicle fare: glossy black, tinted windows, heavily armoured. Nothing he hasn’t seen before.

(A thin, pale face swims into the asset’s mind, framed with sopping wet dark-blonde hair and set in determination, teeth chattering. He pushes it down.)

His opportunity, when it comes, will be brief. Standard bodyguard protocol is thorough, but there will be a second as the target exits the vehicle, maybe two, when nobody stands between her and the balcony. He’s going to have to be fast and decisive and precise; there will be no room for hesitation and absolutely no second chances. He knows he’s capable of completing the assignment, though.

(Panic, or at least the memory of panic, exasperation and fear and something else, deep and visceral, something he’d identify as love if he had any knowledge of it.)

Bodyguards are swarming around the car now, five or six of them, tall and burly in increasingly soaked black suits, fussing with phones and umbrellas. The asset ignores them. They’ll die if they have to, but his handler wants this to be quick and neat and as clean as possible. Only one person needs to bleed out their life onto the sidewalk today.

(“Jeez, Bucky, no need to get so worried. It’s just a bit of rain,” says the face, breaking off to cough unhealthily. “Not like I’m going to get pneumonia again, is it?”)

The asset aims, carefully, at the point which will contain an unprotected head in ten seconds. Memories are swirling in the back of his mind, punching and scrabbling at the blank amnesiac smokescreen preventing him from seeing anything clearly enough to recognise its shape.

(The voice behind the memory’s viewpoint - was that the Bucky the face mentioned? was that him? was that his own name, he could almost reach out and touch it, glorious recognition at his very fingertips - the voice says “Hey, better safe than sorry. I gotta take care of you now.”)

The door of the four-wheel drive opens, and a slim brown leg wearing a dark-coloured pencil skirt and matching stiletto is revealed. Breathe in, breathe out.

(“Cause you know, I’m on your side. I’m with you -”)

She steps out of the car fully, head in profile to where the asset kneels. His finger tightens on the trigger -

(“- till the end of the line, buddy.”)

The single bullet makes a tiny ripping noise as it crosses the rain-speckled distance and there is very suddenly a hole in the side of the target’s head. She staggers, drawing the attention of the bodyguards. They’re armed before her body hits the ground, yelling orders and sighting around the square’s perimeter, but the asset knows nothing if not how to conceal himself. He turns so that the metal of his left arm will not show any reflections and swiftly, silently, folds away the rifle.

The memories have been getting more and more persistent for the last few missions. The previous one, high summer in some generic American city, had the same nagging feeling that something was wrong. He felt like there was somewhere he had to be, something incredibly important he was missing - and it only got worse the more he tried to concentrate on the street, the loud, jubilant parade in red, white and blue.

He shouldn’t even have the slightest scrap of a memory that’s not of this life, that’s not of darkness and gunshots and politics and gleaming steel - but he has that thin, resolute face, and the fleeting certainty that the person it belongs to needs him. If the asset even so much as mentions it in passing to his handler, it’ll be back in the chair for sure. Nothing can affect his abilities. Nothing can affect the mission.

But he wants to know, so, so badly.

The asset shakes his head slightly, as if that’s going to dislodge memories rather than just rainwater, and melts back through the balcony door, leaving the bodyguards to shout amongst themselves and the rain to keep pouring down, freezing and relentless and fraught with almost-remembrance.


End file.
